


and then the dragons

by midnightluck



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 09:05:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9878537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightluck/pseuds/midnightluck
Summary: No one ever told you that grief was a headache. No one told you that regret is a small slice of nasty that sits behind your thoughts and pulses with your heartbeat.If you'd known that, you might not have done it.(That's a lie.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> So. Look, this is kinda ooc and very dark and also weird but I dunno what else to do with it so here?

No one ever told you that grief was a headache. No one told you that regret is a small slice of nasty that sits behind your thoughts and pulses with your heartbeat.

If you'd known that, you might not have done it.

_(That's a lie.)_

Well, you'd have had more second thoughts.

_(That's a lie, too. You say you didn't have a choice, but you're a dishonorable cur who lies lies lies—)_

You live with it because you must. You live with it because you can't die for it; you're not allowed. Death is easy, all Shimada know. They are samurai back and back and back; they know that while death can erase dishonor, it can't undo mistakes _—_

So you live with it, picking at the scabs and pressing against memory like it’s a fresh burn, shiny and hurting.

~@~

There's a myth that goes like this: the Dragon of the South Wind threw his brother down from the heavens so hard that it shattered the earth below.

 _That's wrong_ , you think.

_(Something cracked, that’s true, but it was a spine.)_

~@~

You go through the motions of honoring his memory. It's important you come here, on this day, because everything you've ever been taught says so.

It's otherwise pointless; you remember him with every breath, see his face on every blink, relive his smiles in dreams, and location has nothing to do with it.

The scent of the cherry blossoms hangs heavy on still air, thick and cloying as rhododendron honey. It's poison, you know, but you breathe deep and hold it, tasting the memories 'til you choke.

You weren't actually that close in life, is the real funny part. You spend more time with his memory than you ever did with him.

As the eldest, you were groomed and set on your path and didn't think to question it. You shared lessons, but never as equals; there were expectations for you and he was a contingency. _Heir and a spare_ , your father said once, flippant, and you decided on that breath that you could never hate him. He's freer than you, but so much more pitiful.

Right up till he brings you a rock one day. It's a dull kind of grey with small shiny bits, still warm from his chubby hand, and you stare at it blankly. _It's for you_ , he says, pushing it onto your knee. _Cause you don't get to go outside so much, so I brought the outside to you!_

 _Oh,_ you thought then. You'd already decided not to ever hate him, but you weren't given a choice about loving him.

~@~

You see him, sometimes, in passing; he’s bouncy and bright and his laugh can be heard clear across the courtyard. When you’re learning with Father, he’s off with Mother, dipping toes into the koi pond and bothering the family for piggyback rides.

You catch sight of him once, through a window, riding on a lackey’s shoulders as he waves a Children’s Day flag. It’s sunny and lovely, and you have three more petitioners before you’re even close to done, and the only thing that makes it acceptable is that he’s laughing.

It’s not like you keep count of how many days it’s been since you heard his laugh; that’d be pathetic.

~@~

There's a myth that goes like this: the Dragon of the South Wind killed his brother because of whispers on the wind, for something as petty as power.

The Dragon gained power, sure, but lost all sense of control. In that terrifying time, the voices continued to guide him, and, dragons help him, he _listened._

_~@~_

He dyed his hair, you recall, twice or three times. There was the subtle blue before the lurid orange, right? You will never forget the orange because you found him crying in the bathroom that night, sobbing like neon hair was the worst possible fate. You remember that night because you hadn’t seen him in days before that, and you don’t know why _orange_ of all colors, but you were the one who sat wordless beside him, who helped him use the rest of the blue to turn it an unholy green, and you were the one who (and you _still_ regret this) said it didn’t look half bad.

You remember that night because it’s the only time you know you were an actual brother to him, and you also know that he doesn’t recall it at all.

~@~

It's entirely your fault, but only mostly.

There were whispers, there was talk, there was a crack in the clan. _Genji is young like us_ , the next generation says. _Genji is bright, Genji will break the mold and lead us to a bright future_ , the children whisper, and the whispers get steadily louder.

 _Kids are our future_ , you think now with the burden of age, _and even then, it was not I._

But it was you, with a dragon weighing heavy on your shoulder and heavier on your soul. It was you to whom the burden fell, and you whom the elders approached.

Oh, they were careful, though, weren’t they? With their subtle pointing and smooth words, all _for the good of the clan_ this and _established hierarchical tradition_ that, building you into a prison with their concerns and their words and their thrice-damned _traditions_. It was subtle and you were blind, _heir and a spare_ and you weren’t even close anyway, but even then those voices were careful.

They never said _kill him_. They only said, _he’s a problem_ , and then handed you your sword. It’s their fault, mostly; they aimed the gun and pulled the trigger, but that doesn’t change the fact that that gun was _you_.

~@~

You didn’t break, not then. You sat _seiza_ , tucked up and polite, and you walked out in front with grace and poise, and you handed out the disdain and cutting comments that your father bred into you.

You went to your room and sat in the dark and blinked, slow and even, and realized you were still running that damn count, of how many days since you heard him laugh, and that creeping little feeling, cold and numbing, curls around your soul like your dragons, and you breathe out and out and absolutely don’t cry.

~@~

There's a myth that goes like this: the Dragon of the South Wind fell, low and humble, and walked in remorse and guilt and truly repented, and thus won back his brother.

Well, you can’t fall any lower than the alley you slept in last night, and you can’t be more bitter than the bile that won’t leave your mouth, and you can’t be any damn guiltier because hell knows you’ve tried.

 _I didn’t even love you,_ you say once to the ghost on your shoulder, and, _you were the spare_.

You can’t even recall the sound of his laughter anymore even if you never stopped counting the days, so you go out to find more blood to pile on your hands. They’ll never be clean, you know that, but maybe you can bury the older stains under fresh ones.

~@~

He comes back.

_He comes back._

How _dare_ he.

It’s not enough for him to be in your head anymore, is it? It’s not enough anymore to haunt the corner of your eye, to be the quiet whisper behind the nightmares. It can’t be enough, because here he is in front of you, larger than life for all he’s dead.

 _(Dead,_ you think, and it has the sharp bite of hysteria to it, _dead and_ still _that godforsaken green.)_

~@~

You follow him to Overwatch because of course you do. He’s alive, somehow, despite your best efforts.

You follow him there and haunt him like a ghost; turnabout is fair play. You watch him through windows, hear his laugh across rooms, and it’s a bitter punch of nostalgia that festers low and hot.

But there are others, and you cannot hide from them forever. The gorilla welcomes you, and your subsequent research on him proves him worthy of respect. The doctor you avoid, simply because Genji does, and you’d never get to speak to that Omnic monk without your brother present.

The young Korean Mech pilot likes to lay out on the couch and play, and one day she starts up a game. You don’t know the name but you do know the theme song, and it hits like a migraine, sudden and blinding. She laughs, bright and loud, and you leave. It’s too much and it’s still all wrong.

Then, _heya Hanzo_ , the cowboy says, one day. It startles you; you’ve never looked twice at him. _Figured we could talk sometime, be friendly-like. I know what it is to make up for something, y'know?_

No, you don't know. You're not here for something as pretty as friendship, and you wish this uncouth American would keep your name out of his mouth. He calls Genji like that, too, by simple first name, and it burns inside because that's a right you no longer have.

So you ignore him and turn away and jump, climbing up onto the roof to tuck yourself away into the crevice the chimney makes. It’s not important, he’s not important, nothing’s important but you and your pain.

~@~

There’s a myth that goes like this: the Dragons stand, fallen from grace but once again reunited. Two brothers, wracked by the storm of life, and yet still alive, still together, still phyrrically triumphant.

It’s not okay, you think. It’s _not_ okay, you know, but there’s also no way to fix it. Betrayal on top of betrayal piled on death, and there’s no way out.

You almost hate him, and you tell him so one day. He laughs and claps you on the shoulder, and you don’t flinch. _You don’t hate me,_ he says. _You never could._

It’s true, and you almost hate him more for it.

~@~

You can’t hate him, in the end, but you know how to hold a grudge. You always have; you can resent and stew and hate till the stars fall down and the winds all die. You know yourself at least this much, so you know that no matter if he really forgives you ( _and you doubt it, despite his pretty words_ ), you will never forgive yourself. But that's okay, because you'll never truly forgive him either.


End file.
